I thought marriage was about building a future together, but lately, it seems like we’ve been living in the past. My husband, a wonderful man in so many ways, has this lingering insecurity—a haunting shadow of jealousy. Not about any current affairs, but about men from my past.

It started subtly, small comments here and there. A passing mention of an ex-boyfriend or a story from my younger days would bring a brief flicker of discomfort across his face. But over time, that flicker grew into something larger, something more suffocating. He became obsessed with comparisons—constantly measuring himself against men I dated before I even met him. Even my ex-husband, Ben, who has been out of my life for years, becomes a regular point of reference.

“You must’ve been happier with him,” he’d say, almost in passing but with an edge I couldn’t ignore. “Why did you marry me if you had that kind of life before?”

It was as if the echoes of my past were somehow louder than our present. Every new accomplishment of mine seemed to trigger a wave of doubt in him. He’d ask me questions about things I barely remembered. “Was he taller than me? More successful? Did he treat you better?” It wasn’t even just one ex—he lumped them all together, like some ghostly parade of men I had left behind.

I’d reassure him, again and again, that none of them mattered now. That I chose him. That we were what mattered. But his retro-jealousy wasn’t easily soothed. He’d dig up old photos, scroll through ancient Facebook posts, and dissect my past with a magnifying glass, looking for clues to confirm his fears.

Sometimes, I felt trapped. I loved him, but I couldn’t keep defending a version of myself that no longer existed. The woman I was with those men had changed, evolved. I wasn’t looking back with regret or longing—I was just trying to move forward, with him.

Our conversations grew tense, fraught with misunderstandings. He’d accuse me of hiding things, of minimizing my feelings for the men who came before. I’d try to explain that those relationships, no matter how significant they once were, had nothing to do with us now. But it was like he couldn’t hear me. His insecurities drowned out my words.

One night, after yet another argument about some insignificant detail from my past, I finally broke down. “I’m not competing with my past!” I shouted, tears spilling over. “I’m here, now, with you. Why can’t you just see that?”

He looked at me, pain in his eyes, and I saw it clearly for the first time—his fear wasn’t really about those other men. It was about himself. His belief that somehow, no matter what I said or did, he would never be enough for me.

But how could I convince him that he was? How could I reassure him when he kept dragging our relationship back into the shadows of the past?

I didn’t have all the answers, but I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t carry the weight of his insecurities forever. I loved him, but love couldn’t erase his fears—it could only shine a light on them. The rest was up to him.

For now, all I could do was remind him that our story was ours to write. Not mine alone, not a continuation of anything that came before, but something new. Something entirely our own.